


Paying the Piper

by persephone (pda)



Series: Never Been Kissed [2]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Dragon Age Kink Meme, F/M, Kink Meme, Oral Sex, Porn, Porn With Plot, Pregnant Sex, Sibling Incest, templar!Carver
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-13
Updated: 2011-08-13
Packaged: 2017-10-22 17:19:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/240521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pda/pseuds/persephone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a <a href="http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/5691.html?thread=20998715#t20998715">kmeme prompt</a>: <i>"A night of mindblowing sex leads to a mutual agreement that We Will Never Speak Of This Again. And it would have mostly worked too, except some time later Hawke turns out to be pregnant [...] Tensions are sexily resolved with all the usual kinks: body image, lactation, sensitivity...you name it."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Paying the Piper

**Author's Note:**

> Written after the original overarcing story, "Never Been Kissed", it is meant to fit between Acts 2 & 3 within that storyline--prior to the Legacy DLC reference scene.

Nerves fluttered Carver’s stomach as he made his way through Hightown. It didn’t matter that he was a templar, that he’d been in the Order for three years, living away from his family, out from under Marian’s shadow. The moment he stepped back into her umbra, even in his thoughts, he was nineteen again remembering the uncertainty, the poverty of a refugee, the anger and resentment of being overlooked in favor of his older sister, even though _she_ was a mage who should have been hidden, under wraps. The constant fear for her safety that Father and Mother had ingrained in him for as long as he’d known what Father and Marian and Bethany were. And he flushed to remember the nights at Uncle Gamlen’s in Lowtown when tension and bickering were resolved tangled together in moth eaten blankets and found in sexual release, or more recently, in an alcove near the Rose, when she’d pulled him aside and begged him to take her. With judgment clouded by lust, he’d complied, entering her for the first time, and nearly shattered apart at the strength of the orgasm that ripped through him when he found completion. He had long since come to uneasy terms with his feelings towards his sister, the push me-pull me attraction and repulsion that came from wanting something he doubly shouldn’t have.

The signs of the qunari attack were fading here, he noted, trying to distract himself. In Lowtown, half-burned out husks of buildings still outnumbered those habitable, but up here he noted, where they built with stone and had the money to repair, the only signs lingering were dark charcoal smudges high on the walls and the odor of destruction that was beginning to fade now, a season later.

Marian hadn’t been seen since shortly after that. She’d saved the city, been hailed as its new Champion…and then faded into seclusion. He’d been too busy—all the templars had been too busy—to hear any of the gossip in the wake of the qunaris departure. The Knight-Commander had had them pitching in to restore order after Viscount Dumar’s death, and he’d been pulling double shifts between the city patrols and duties in the Gallows. It wasn't like the people would talk to templars willingly. Not until Paxley had returned from his first trip to the Rose since the attack, a couple months later, had Carver first caught wind of it.

Another month, and she was still unavailable. Dinner invitations were declined, requests from the nobles to show up in court turned down with the excuse that the Champion was grieving her mother, lost shortly before the Arishok’s rampage. Confronting Varric at the Hanged Man had gotten him the same story, no matter how much Carver had blustered.

If she was that upset, he thought, then maybe he needed to check on her.

He suppressed a shiver after knocking on her door. Dressed in the simple uniform of the Order without his armor, he felt exposed and alone. The weight of his sword brought some comfort, but he’d breathe easier being indoors.

For some definition of easier, given that it would be in _her_ house.

A dwarf answered the door with a breezy, “Good evening, messere—Ser Templar,” he said, correcting himself when he spied the crest woven into his tunic. “What can I do for you?”

The dwarf was standing in the doorway, not opening it to admit him, Carver noted. “I’m here to see my sister. Let me in.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, ser,” he clucked sympathetically. “Messere Hawke has given very strict instructions that she’s to have no visitors, except her close friends.”

Anger exploded in him. “I’m her _brother_.”

“ _Very_ strict,” the dwarf repeated.

Carver pushed the door open and stormed in, knocking the stout dwarf off-balance but not pushing him aside. Still, it was enough of a gap that he could squeeze past, leaving the dwarf behind to shut the door and hurry after him.

“Please, ser, this is most irregular—“

“Where is she?” he asked, turning on his heel to come face to face with the dwarf, who was forced to stop abruptly to avoid running into him.

Something in Carver’s expression caused the dwarf to gulp and relent. “She’s in her library.” He found some reserve of courage, because he shook a finger at Carver. “You’ll let me announce you first. No barging in on her.”

“Very well,” Carver agreed, partially mollified, and trailed after the dwarf to an inner door. The dwarf knocked, waited, then with a stern glare at Carver, opened the door and entered the room, closing the door behind him and leaving Carver cooling his heels. It gave Carver the opportunity to look around, realizing that in all the time Mother and Marian had lived here, this was his first time visiting. Portraits hung on the wall, undoubtedly those of their Amell ancestors, and he spied a handful that looked familiar: Mother and Gamlen when they were probably his age, and an older couple with enough family resemblance to Mother and Bethany to be his grandparents. And there—he felt it hit him in the gut like a blow—a small set of paintings that resembled Father and his twin.

The door latch clicked, and Carver swung back to see the dwarf exiting. “Messere Hawke says to tender you her regards, but she cannot receive you now. If you’d like something to eat before you return to the Gallows, I can—“

He didn’t hear anything after that. Stepping forward, he tried the door and found it unlocked. With the dwarf grabbing at his arm, he opened it and went inside. “What do you mean, ‘you can’t receive me n—‘” He broke off when he spied her, words fleeing.

She’d risen to her feet at his entrance, turning to face him with her staff poised. A flicker of irritation accompanied the reflexive thought to drain her of her mana, but the threat wasn’t why he’d gone speechless. His normally slender, fit sister had features thickened by weight, which was to be expected given the distended bulge in her otherwise loose fitting robes.

He stared in dumbfounded shock, only partially registering her, “You can go now, Bodahn. Why don’t you take Orana and Sandal out for the rest of the evening. I’ll be fine until tomorrow,” and Bodahn’s, “Yes, messere,” before the door clicked shut.

His mind thawed, and thoughts began to flow at hasted speed, fueled by his racing heart. In a daze, he walked toward her, sums running through his mind, how many months, spring, Mother’s death, summer, the qunari attack, fall was losing its grasp, fading into winter…

He reached where she stood, the blood draining from his face, and collapsed into a seat on the stool next to the chaise she’d risen from.

Tilting his head back to look up at her, a blush rose back into his cheeks in a rush when he was struck by how beautiful she was like this. Features softened or no, she had an almost luminous quality to her complexion that his body reacted to without volition, his pulse throbbing in his veins.

Gingerly, she re-took her seat, unable to meet his eyes. “Why didn’t you listen to Bodahn? I told him to tell you no.”

And like that, his temper returned. “You wanted to keep _me_ out?”

“Yes,” she snapped, coming around to face him. “You especially. Bad enough dealing with Fenris, you on t—“ She stopped herself, scowling and fixed her gaze on the fire.

“What _about_ Fenris?” he snarled, jealousy seizing him in its teeth.

Her jaw set stubbornly, and he wanted to grab her shoulders and shake her, his fingers curling inwards to control the impulse. A muscle twitched in her cheek, and she said grudgingly, “He might be the father. And he’s angsting over that. I don’t care,” she said, adding a dismissive gesture with her hand.

His suspicions seized on one word. “Might?”

Her nostrils flared as she inhaled sharply, her fingers bunching up then smoothing her robes over her thighs, a habit he recognized from when she was upset that he didn’t think she even knew she did. “Don’t make me say it.”

His mind reeled, and he was irrationally glad that Mother wasn’t alive to deal with this.

Followed by anger. “You should have told me.”

“There was nothing to tell,” she replied acidly. “This is my problem to deal with, and I’m dealing with it. You made it clear you wanted to make your own life, so—go make it. Leave me to mine.”

“You’re _still_ my sister!”

It hung there between them like a poisonous cloud, thick and heavy and fraught with danger. He was breathing hard, his chest heaving, two spots of color burning high on her cheeks.

She could have said it. _Should_ have said it. But she didn’t, just looked at him, blue eyes burning like they so often did at him, and like so often when they did, he felt desire blossom in his middle, unfurling in his groin. Unsteadily, he unbuckled his scabbard to put his sword aside and tipped off the edge of the stool to his knees before her, his hands going to her swollen belly to splay across it, tracing the contours in a dream-like haze. She made a noise in the back of her throat he recognized, that he’d touched her just right, and he began to ache. “Is he here?” he asked, his tongue thick in his mouth.

“Who?” The word was clipped. She was shivering under his caress.

His lips thinned as he pursed them together in distaste, before saying, “Fenris.”

A bitter laugh, almost a sob, escaped her. “No. No one’s here.”

“You’re alone,” he said, disbelief warring with outrage and exultation. He could barely stretch his hands to encompass the bulge, _her child_ , she’d gotten so big with it, and he not knowing.

“No one’s here,” she repeated, and her hand dropped to the top of his head, fingers running through his hair in an intimacy that had him closing his eyes at the unexpected power of his reaction

He folded himself over her, dropping to rub his cheek against her belly, the fabric of her robes puckering and releasing under the motion in its own sensual frisson. Pleasure washed over him, he wanted to purr like a cat, wallowing in the simple sensation of touching this newness of her and the noisy little breaths she made at each circular pass. With an effort, he tore himself away and reached out to fumble with the fastenings on her robe, half-expecting her to smack his hands away, but she allowed it, each clasp parting to reveal another sliver of her body until it lay open down the front, and he peeled back the edges with shaky hands, wanting to see. The roundness of her belly naked, but he drank in the sight of her breasts, larger, heavier, and felt a jolt in his groin at the fluid leaking from her darkened nipples. Gently, he cupped them, to have her grunt so loudly it took him off-guard. “Did it hurt?” he whispered hoarsely.

“No,” she assured him softly, shaking her head with her eyes closed, “no. Maker…” She trailed off, the wonder and arousal freighted in that one word, a benediction, bringing him instantly to hardness. With a moan, he put his face to her breast, nuzzling it, smelling the unique scent that was her, Marian, changed through time, or memory, or her pregnancy to something new, something exotic, that he inhaled on a wave of euphoria before he lapped at the nipple, tasted the liquid, then sucked it in with a whimper. Her back arched and she cried out, a sound that goaded him on, so long used to stifled noises and silence. An arm went around her thickened waist, supporting her, his other hand circling the bare nipple in time with his mouth and tongue, the slickness under his fingertips fanning the flames harder than he could have ever imagined. His weight bore her down to lean against the back of the chaise, and her hips and belly rocked into his chest. “Oh, Maker, that feels so good,” she breathed, a whine of need edging her voice, and he groaned, rubbing her nipple roughly at the flare of desire that stabbed him. She hissed in a breath, “Gently, that hurt.”

His apology was a guttural sigh, pulling off her breast to blaze a path downwards, lingering at her stomach, breathing and lapping and caressing it with lips and tongue and a hand, an erotic flush burning through him again at the thought of her child curled safely inside. A _thump_ resounded against him as he licked around a curve, jarring him backwards accompanied by her thready laugh. “What?” he exclaimed, between panting breaths. She responded by taking his hand from her breast and laying it across the spot, still, until he felt it again, this time against his palm. Surprise and tenderness rushed through him. “Is that...?”

“Yes,” she confirmed, but then her tone turned pleading. “Please, don’t stop.”

The yearning in her voice drove the hesitation from him, and his hand began to move over her abdomen, feeling a little answering flutter in his belly when the child kicked, his ache for her increasing towards unbearable. Down the bottom slope he went to her sex, to find the black curls sodden. “You’re so _wet_ ,” he said in hungry awe, heat rushing up his cock, before she parted her knees in anticipation. Her petals were deep crimson, like an overblown flower, engorged and erotically lush, beckoning him. He trembled as he dipped forward to taste her, and she drawled a mewl, writhing when he found the pearl, swollen as the rest of her, and sucked on it. A gush of moisture escaped her, wetting his chin, and he lost himself in re-learning her, drinking her nectar, until she was keening. Her climax when it hit took him by surprise, far sooner than he was expecting, a barking gasp that had her thrusting into his mouth before she relaxed into the cushions.

Shaking, he rose, the pressure in his groin edging on pain, and paused, daunted by realization. With her changed shape, he didn’t know how he would find his own fulfillment. She sprawled, flaccid and satiated, her eyes closed. “Marian...” He hated begging her, but he needed her, _needed_ release. She cracked her eyes and smiled slyly before stretching out on her side along the couch, the unfastened robe gaping open to tease him with tantalizing glimpses of her turgid breasts and belly, her sex glistening with dewy blackness in the light of the fire.

He drew down his pants and got tangled in his haste, having to will himself to patience to tear them from his feet. Urgency drove him to lay down next to her, manhood tenting his smallclothes, until she hooked a finger in the band and tugged down. “Off,” she whispered, “take them off.”

Swallowing a sob, he complied, remembering a time when that had been a line they wouldn’t cross, but having done it once, he craved it like lyrium, and was glad she’d allowed him this. He took himself in his hand, pre-cum oozing out, and put the tip to her slit, rooting in the wet fur until her leg rose to rest heavily against his thigh, parting herself in invitation. Shuddering, he glided down the valley to the well, and even though she had just come, she inhaled noisily and pressed her hips towards him, sheathing him with a sigh of satisfaction.

Lightning struck him, the shock of being enclosed exploding through his nerves. There was no slow build, no rise, just instant and immediate frenzy, like a callow boy, and he was pumping, her distended belly bumping into him on every thrust until he repositioned himself to better dive deeply, fully, balls half-buried in wetness, and climax hit him in a shout, muscles straining with the effort until he emptied himself and sagged heavily. For several moments, he could only lay there, shaking in the aftermath, too drained to move.

When he had recovered enough, he pulled out, avoiding meeting her eyes, and stood to put his clothing into order as she did the same--one thing remained unchanged between them. By the time the last clasp was done up on her robe, he was composed enough to offer tentatively, “If you need money, I have a little I could send.”

She gave him a quick, sidelong glance with a thin smirk that turned rueful when she looked away. “That’s okay, brother dear. I get a little income as a noble, and some from investments Varric is handling from me.”

Her words and subtle mocking tone pricked at him, annoyance kindling “Are you--” he started, but couldn’t finish.

“Anders offered me an abortifacient potion,” she said, as if he hadn’t spoken. “But Mother had just died, and I couldn’t--” She stopped herself, and he turned to her to see her jaw set but her eyes dry. “This no longer concerns you.”

Frustration boiled over. “How can you say that, after--” But, no, they didn’t talk about it, couldn’t talk about it, and it hung in the air unspoken.

She stared into the fire, voice flinty. “He is ill-begotten.” _My son!_ ripped through Carver’s mind. A wave shame drowned the brief lived exhilaration that realization brought him. She went on. “Regardless of my decision,” she took a deep, hitching breath, before adding, “--or his siring--I won’t let it besmirch your precious templar honor.”

The cut lay him open and left him bleeding, as it was undoubtedly intended to. With a wordless snarl of rage, he grabbed his sword and stalked out of the house, slamming the estate door behind him.


End file.
